"No no no! Again, you just did it! You lunge like that you make this entire area vulnerable to a pommel strike."
The great bearded menace proceeds to demonstrate what a pommel strike to the clavicle might feel like under less controlled circumstances. To this end, he grabs ahold of Margo's forearm – conveniently extended, practice dagger and all – and gives it a casual little jerk, which has the unhappy effect of bringing the crunchy part of her shoulder in close contact with the clubby part of his sword. Margo greets this with a displeased "oof," dives under his arm, and scuttles out of the way, trying to get a good kidney stab in before her opponent has the chance to permanently disable her with some other kind of "symbolic" death blow.
She doesn't get far. Warden Blackwall, nothing if not defying all known laws of physics concerning the relationship between mass and velocity, sweeps out with his foot. Margo anticipates the move and jumps, narrowly avoiding being tripped up, but just as she lands back into the snow relatively unscathed, the accursed bear simply tackles her under her knees, lifts her off the ground in some kind of wrestling move, and proceed to deposit her into the nearest snow bank. All to the slow clapping of the giant Qunari, and to Sera's rather licentious whistle.
"Well, Beardy, this time it took you a whole five minutes to get her on her back. I say that's an improvement!"
Margo climbs out of the snow pile, and launches a quick flurry of snowballs, one of which smacks Sera square between the eyes, one that crashes against Blackwall's breastplate and sprays up into his beard, and one which the Qunari almost manages to dodge, if it weren't for his horns.
"Not bad." The Iron Bull wipes off the snow from his head as if the very nature of the substance was an offence to the gods. "If these were actual grenades, you'd have two opponents missing heads, and one missing a face. Or, well, a beard. Don't know if there's any kind of face under there."
"Yeah, but she's still shite in close combat." That, of course, is Sera, who has recovered from Margo's attack by shaping whatever's left of her snowball into something that looks distinctly X-rated. "Unless, of course, she's faking it and all of this is an excuse to grapple with Warden Blackwall here, all up close and personal or what have you."
At this point Sera starts making kissy noises, right up until the moment the aforementioned Warden dumps her in the same snow bank.
"Two elves in as many minutes. You're setting a new record, big guy" Iron Bull opines.
Margo looks between the trio, and shakes her head in consternation. When taken individually, each of the new additions to the Inquisition's ranks seem like perfectly reasonable characters – well, safe, perhaps, for Sera. But if you combine the three together, some unholy chemical reaction takes place, and the level of trash talk evolves from whatever regular army banter one might expect in your average, run of the mill barracks, to something only seen among twelve year old boys after too much sugar.
It's been a week since she's been back from the Hinterlands with the rest of Harding's patrol. Two weeks since Evie and her retinue left for Orlais. The physical consequences of her reenactment of Humpty Dumpty have largely dissipated, a combination of Solas's clearly impressive magical skills, and of a very steady regime of healing tonics she has been experimenting with since she's been able to drag herself to a worktable. Master Adan, after giving her a rather long and detailed lecture on safety precautions for navigating crumbling ramparts, brought out a new set of alchemy books she had not seen before, and they had been working to improve Auntie's more classical formulas. "Work that needs to be done anyway" Adan piped up enthusiastically, clearly happy that now said work could be done with the help of a willing guinea pig.
Margo can't quite decide whether she was ridiculously lucky, or whether Thedas's combination of magic and alchemy completely skew the parameters of what normal mortality and life expectancy might look like.
Whatever might be said of Evie, she's been busy. Sera was the first to make her appearance, closely followed by the Qunari. And then, a day or two later, Blackwall marched in as well. According to Harding's grapevine – which, from what Margo can tell, is really more of an industrial-sized orchard with adjacent winery – the first two very actively volunteered their services. Blackwall was more of an opportunistic hire, and mostly by dint of Leliana's insistence. Something about her having a fondness for Grey Wardens, for whatever reason.
According to Harding, the quartet was now courting yet another addition, a high-society mage from the Orlesian court, with the discouraging moniker of "Madame de Fer." Whether the label is meant to suggest their prospective ally's strong endorsement of economic austerity measures, evoke her similarity to the medieval torture device (which Margo has always thought to be a juicer designed with a vampire customer in mind), or simply refer to a penchant for heavy metal, none of it strikes Margo as auspicious, whichever way you look at it.
Well, at least they're all still alive. From everything she heard about Orlais, Margo has a strong suspicion that attending Orlesian high society salons while dead – or undead for that matter – would be considered gauche, and quite possibly very last season.
There have been no repeat visits from the elf during her excursions into the Fade, though, and it isn't precisely that she is feeling worried about it, but… Maybe 'diffusely anxious' would capture the sentiment better. And once she finally manages to identify the exact nature of the emotion, Margo emits an exasperated grunt, almost spilling the potion she is working on, and spooking the bats in the Apothecary's rafters in the process, and proceeds to smack her forehead with the heel of her palm, on the slim hope that this will realign her clearly addled brain. Because it is just like waiting for that text message or phone call, except in dream form, and she is too old for this shit and has better things to do. No way. Warm and fuzzies are all well and good. But not this. She's not about to start pining. Or languishing. Or any other 19th century Victorian afflictions. Hellmouth can freeze over first. Or spit out yodeling marmots. Or both.
So Margo does what any accidental body snatcher with an emotional problem to actively ignore would: she decides to churn virtue from necessity and make new friends.
The Qunari is first. Because after the fifth time she "accidentally" passes by his tent on her way to the forge on entirely fabricated pretenses that she is using as an unconvincing excuse to try to make sense of what sort of creature this new Homo Minotauricus might be, he calls her out on it.
"You know, Blondie, if you want to gawk, just do us both a favor and gawk properly. Your back and forth is giving me a headache" the giant announces.
Margo startles – because, of course, no one likes to be called out on their bullshit – but then decides that she might as well take the bull by the horns, as it were.
"I'm sorry." She approaches, and it's like one of those optic distortions, whereby objects in the rearview mirror really are larger than they appear. And have pointier horns. "I'm Margo. You are a Qunari, correct?"
The giant nods.
"Never seen one of us before? Then I can't blame you. We have that effect."
Margo takes the invitation at face value and proceeds to ask the Homo Minotauricus a slew of rather nosy questions about what the hell the mythical Qunari are. She gets a series of more or less detailed answers, which leave her with the impression that the Qun is what would have happened if George Orwell had read a lot of pop Buddhism before writing 1984.
"You know, that is very gracious of you." It seems only polite to thank the fellow. "It's not that often that one gets an invitation to openly stare and then ask invasive questions. I do hope dragons are also this accommodating."
This gets the giant – whose name turns out to be Iron Bull – to guffaw, and then suddenly launch into an enthusiastic lecture on how to kill the lizards in question.
From there, they somehow get onto gaatlok and the relative merits of plant versus animal based poisons, and from there it's not exactly a fast route to friendship, but at least they both agree that the other has their priorities straight.
Blackwall turns out pretty easy too, and Margo thinks it's mostly because he's a little lonely, and a little unused to being around that many people while not killing things. So he keeps volunteering for the odd manual labor jobs around the camp, and, having noticed this commendable trait, Master Adan sends her to recruit the Warden to help haul the new, much larger ingredient mill from the forge to the Apothecary. "Go use your feminine wiles" he instructs, and waves his hand.
As it turns out, no feminine wiles are required, and the Warden is more than happy to lend a hand. They get talking about the merits – or rather the lack thereof – of most restorative draughts, and he reveals that he has a terrible time getting past a gag reflex with the standard elfroot decoction.
"It is pretty bitter" Margo clucks sympathetically, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice.
"It's fucking vile, is what it is" the Warden corrects, and at that point, she's chortling.
"I can try to brew you a special batch that neutralizes some of the taste, if you want."
It's impossible to actually tell what his facial expression might be behind all that lush growth, but, based on the eyes, she thinks it is surprise and amusement? Maybe?
"You'd do that? I'll trade you melee lessons for it."
"Deal" Margo nods, and they shake hands.
Sera turns out to be the hardest one by far.
"Aw, shite, you're an elf. Are you one of them really elfie ones? No face tats, right, but that doesn't mean anything, sometimes it's the street ones that are the biggest nobs, because 'ooh, our empire had advanced magics when humans were still swinging off trees' and fuck of a lot of good that did anyone."
Margo furrows her brow trying to follow all this.
"What's an elfie elf?" she finally asks. That seems safe enough.
"You know. Like, all performing being elfie and what not."
"I am definitely not that" Margo volunteers carefully. Primarily because she has a very slim idea what 'elfiness' looks like, let alone how one would go about performing it. But she does make a mental note of learning more about the internal divisions and politics of elven identity. It seems like the least she can do if she's going to inhabit this body for the foreseeable future.
"Ah, well. Maybe you're alright then."
And that is how they end up where they are, which is to say, with snow in uncomfortable places. Every day, one of them helps Margo "re-train" her skills, in exchange for very specific, customized alchemical preparations. Ironically, all three do not – or pretend they do not – realize that the two others are trading their mentorship for precisely the same favor. Sera wants an ointment that keeps her toes warm – but isn't greasy on application because "Ew, squishy toes!" For Blackwall's elfroot aversion, Margo simply uses molasses in the final mixture. Eventually, the Qunari makes his request as well, at which point Margo almost expects something a bit ridiculous, or, at the very least, trivial.
It is not. The skin under his eye patch chafes in Haven's cold weather, so when he flips up the black leather strip for Margo to take a look, she winces sympathetically. She whips up the ointment the same day. That seems to get the giant firmly in her camp. "Alright, Blondie. I'll help you work with the poisons. Once you graduate past big guy." She does wonder whether he would be quite so magnanimous if he knew that she used Auntie's recipe for diaper rash cream as the foundation for the salve.
The tavern is packed, hot, and reeking of cabbage stew. They settle at a table next to Harding, Jan, and a handful of other scouts, fresh from patrol in some questionable place called The Fallow Mire. Harding says they've barely managed to scout anything, and will need to send more people. "I think Leliana mentioned she'd like you to take that on. Might want to check in with her" Harding adds, and there's something about her expression that gets Margo concerned.
"What's in the Fallow Mire?" she asks.
"Dead shit. Lots and lot of dead shit." That's Jan, and for once, he looks too disgusted to attempt to chase tail. Come to think of it, they all have a kind of lingering decomposition smell – faint, but still there. "Also, Avvar. Dead shit and Avvar. I don't know what I ever did to the Spymaster to get this assignment."
Sera, already done with her second bowl of cabbage soup, comes back with another round of beers, and a pretzel she somehow managed to sweet-talk Flissa into giving her.
"Alright, dead things, boring shite, blah blah blah. What are we playing? 'Truth or dare' or 'who would you rather'?"
Blackwall and Harding groan in annoyance simultaneously.
Margo gets up.
"And that's my cue to go make some lyrium potions for the impending new mage."
"Not so fast."
She gives Iron Bull a dirty look. Et tu, Brutus?
"I'll start. Margo. Who would you rather, a Vint, or a Qunari?"
She shoots him a quick look, trying to gauge what's behind the question. And while her other table companions all sport a predictable range of expressions – from mildly exasperated to amused to curious – the horned mountain has a very careful look behind the casual mask. Margo wonders, not for the first time, how many practicing spymasters there are in the Inquisition.
"I'm outa here" she states with great dignity.
"Well, I think we all know the answer to that one anyway" Jan winks.
Harding shoots her an apologetic look. Aha. So Maile's legacy is making the rounds. Well, good to know.
"Wait, what? Oh no you don't. Not after that little revelation." That's Sera, and she genuinely looks like she hasn't heard any of the circulating rumors.
Margo's heartbeat accelerates. Not that this is catastrophic, but she would rather extricate herself from the uncomfortable direction of the conversation – or, minimally, control its unfolding.
She forces herself to sit. This is the problem with this world. Everyone seems to have secrets within secrets, like whole nested dolls worth of secrets that sometimes aren't even yours to keep. Such as, for example, what she now suspects about Evie, and that has been steadily gnawing at her by the impossibility to share it or drag it into the open.
"Fine, fine" she says, to the hoots of a couple of her table companions. "A Vint or a Qunari, was that the question?"
She's stalling of course, and a quick look at the Iron Bull tells her that he knows this.
He nods. "That's right, Blondie. Simple, really."
"Ok, what are the other parameters at play? What is their respective training?"
Bull cocks an eyebrow at this – the scarred one above his bad eye – but humors her.
"Lets even the odds, and say they're both mages."
Margo suppresses a smile, because, of course, he's just given her the perfect out. Thank the Heavens for Adan indulging her reading habits on Theodosian politics.
"Then the Qunari."
Jan frowns.
"Wait, why?"
"Because at least he wouldn't talk your ear off" she grins, miming the act of sewing her mouth shut.
This earns her a hearty set of guffaws, especially from the women at the table. Margo can't help but sigh inwardly, an unpleasant sense of foreboding nagging at her. She is not sure that the image of the tough as nails, heartless operative that Maile has left as her legacy is one she wants to wear. And the irony, of course, is that Maile herself was not that.
"And now, I really am off. Sera, do you want my turn?"
Sera, of course, jumps at the opportunity.
"Alright. Blackwall. Lady Montyliet or Seeker Pentaghast?"
On her way to the door, she hears Blackwall choke on his beer.
"Andraste's Ass, Sera, I'm not answering that."
Margo makes her way to the Apothecary, but decides to forego the Lyrium potions in favor of an early night.
And to be fair, she even has an excuse. Because she has had ample opportunity to mull over the Evie problem, and is now unable to select a course of action. And she tells herself that what she really wants is someone to talk to about it. Right. Just… someone to bounce ideas off. Nothing more. She closes her eyes.
She opens them and finds herself in Solas's hut. There is barely enough light from the window to etch out the contours of the furniture, and the house feels empty, long unoccupied.
Solas is sitting on the bed, elbows on knees, and gaze at the floor, in a position so similar to the one she remembers from their unfortunate ritual that she almost instinctively reaches out to him. Her heart does a painful little skip, and Margo tells herself that it is just the unexpected surprise of the Fade call actually connecting.
"Hello, da'elgar" he says quietly, without looking up.
Tentatively, she walks over to the bed, and lowers herself next to him.
"Solas, are you alright? You seem…" She can't quite capture the words to describe his mood. It is not a sadness, exactly, but a kind of ancient melancholy that seems almost abstract, rather than prompted by anything specific, and that therefore feels profoundly unmendable.
He looks up at her, his eyes dark in the gloom.
"I am fine. Simply tired. But you have come with a question. Something ailing your thoughts. Is it about our Herald?"
She looks at him, and wonders how he knows, and then of course, wonders whether this same issue has been ailing him as well.
"Yes. I can't quite decide what I'm supposed to do about it. As in, does she know? Is there even anything to know? Do I confront her? Do I tell the others? Cassandra, Cullen…? And what if she doesn't know, then where exactly does that leave me?"
She sighs, immensely grateful that she can share this festering ball of questions with someone who knows about them, and knows about her. Since their absence, her life has been further devolving into a very careful waltz on treacherous grounds – 'look casual, dear, oh and mind the snakes.' It is a relief to put her guard down.
The elf nods.
"But it is not your secret to share, Lethallan, is it? Let us say you tell Cassandra, or any of the others. Then would that not alienate the girl from you? She does seem to place a lot of trust in her relationship with you. Do you truly wish to betray that trust? Or, if you confront her about your suspicions, what are the chances that she will heed your warning? She is young and sheltered, not accustomed to taking responsibility for herself."
Solas sighs, then turns to her. He raises his hand, and softly traces the contour of her cheekbone with his thumb, eventually letting it rest just a quarter of an inch away from the corner of her lips.
Something isn't… quite right. It's subtle. But…
Margo jumps up and away from the bed, a spasm of ancient, sticky terror prickling the skin on her arms, and between her shoulder blades. She has always been of the school of thought that Medieval monks allegedly yelling things like "Away with you, Devil!" or any such dramatic demands for said evil entity to absquatulate would be ineffective at best, and induce fits of hilarity from the entity in question at worst.
Now, she really does understand why the monks might have been compelled to such pointless injunctions.
"You're not Solas" she states instead, trying to suppress her revulsion at the gothic horror of the close-but-imperfect imitation.
Non-Solas inclines its head, and its eyes are twinkling with humor that looks almost intimately familiar.
"No? Ah, but that is simply a matter of perspective. Tell me, little spirit, what do you need from the wolf – or, really, not even the wolf itself, but the shadow of its shadow?"
Margo narrows her eyes at this strange appellation. Didn't baba make a similar sort of lupine reference?
"What could you possibly be hoping for? Companionship? A nice conversation, perhaps? Someone to confide in? To counsel you through your uncertainties? Ah, and a little roll in the hay, maybe?" It laughs, and it sounds so much like Solas, but too loud on the high tones. "We could do any of that and more. No strings attached. A… private little secret. Because, little spirit, it is time you faced the truth. You are pining. And he clearly is occupied elsewhere, is he not? So why torture yourself?"
Oh fuck this very much, she doesn't need this.
"Thanks. Not interested. Go carpetbag somewhere else."
The thing laughs again, and Margo, at this point, wants to scream to drown out the sound of it, its perverse little dissonance.
"But I am getting better, am I not? You like your wolf melancholy. That gets you to come sit down, to offer consolation. And I remember you like him a little forward, too."
It flicks its fingers, and Margo doubles over with a wave of lust so strong it is practically sickening.
"You see. I learn well, little spirit. Next time, you might not be able to tell the difference."
It gets up, covers the distance between them, and presses its lips to her ear.
"Next time, you might not care."
She screams then, because there doesn't seem to be anything else left to do.
And then there is a shift in the quality of the dream, as if the Fade folds on itself - the beginning of some cosmic origami - and the Non-Solas thing dissolves into a puff of purplish vapor.
She straightens, slowly, on wobbly legs, the residual vertigo still pulling at the pit of her stomach. And then there is a steadying hand on her shoulder and she turns and sees the elf. Again.
Margo peers into his face, trying to find the slight wrong, the trace of distortion. Like something else with a slightly different bone structure wearing his skin. But it truly does feel like Solas. Except, she doesn't trust herself to know. Not for sure.
His eyes widen, expression tense, and worried, and he is searching her face for the answer to whatever he sees there.
"I heard you, da'nas. What happened?"
And at that point, the temptation to dissolve into sobs and sort of melt into his arms is almost overwhelming. Except, she supposes they're not quite on those terms either.
Instead, Margo straightens her shoulders.
"Our buddy Imshael paid another visit." And then, as his expression turns dark, Margo puts her hands on her hips, cocks an eyebrow and demands, "And when the hell are you coming back anyway?"